


I’m hoping at the gates, they’ll tell me that you’re mine

by eternal_elenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Implied Relationships, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Margaery might not have a purpose, but they have freedom. Modern AU.</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/15920.html">Livin' On a Prayer: Americana Ficathon</a> at Livejournal. For the prompt: <i>asoiaf, sansa/margaery, degenerate beauty queens</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m hoping at the gates, they’ll tell me that you’re mine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Born to Die" by Lana Del Rey.

Margaery's smile is wide and Sansa's eyes are bright and red lips, black lashes, white sunlight, and nails sweeping across the hoods of cars lined up in the parking lot.  
  
  
  
Their story is obvious except that it's not: days spent in the dust of the midwest, cowboy boots and flyaway hair and cutoffs, Margaery's got lust in her teeth and Sansa's hand in hers and always another too-sweet nothing on her lips. Sansa's got gold through her braid and fingers that talk more than her voice and sunburn that looks like a blush. Together, well, together they've got no more than each other and three dollars to rub together.  
  
  
  
The days are easy; they're laughter masked with sunlight masked with matching red lips. They're Margaery and Sansa and they drift from the gas station to the bar to the convenience store where they buy a packet of Skittles, coat their fingers in blue and green and yellow and paint the other's palms. The days are easy because there's nowhere to be and nothing to do, only the pull of the wind to guide them and the sound of a voice. The days are easy and Sansa watches Margaery watch her and then they both watch the cars drive past.  
  
Mornings are somehow simpler, even if they are not so easy – a bed and a bedstand and now-eighty dollars and legs, fingers, hair twined together. A dim motel room with the curtains shoved shut and roughened knees and bruised mouths; Margaery when Sansa opens her eyes.  
  
Nights are, well, neither simple nor easy, but there's always a price, isn't there?  
  
  
  
"How much?" he asks and they are always the first words of the day, because there are no words more important. There are many words and none of them will ever be salvation, so might as well speak numbers instead, might as well count zeros.  
  
The number changes, one-seventy to four-hundreed to fifteen, but the sound of them stays the same, like the click of heels on the pavement, like the silence-roar of engines pulling into refuel; the number changes, but Petyr's smile does not, nor do his fingers reaching across the bar to take the bills.  
  
  
  
They have two meals a day and a place to call home and eyeliner and lipstick. They have a ledger, bound in red and lined in black and written in blue. They have nothing else.  
  
Except, except, they do. Except there are golden grins and silver words and freedom on their lips, painted together with gloss.  
  
  
  
They had more, once, before they can remember, before they  _want_ to remember. They had more, once, than the rattle of change in their pockets and the smell of gasoline on their fingertips. They had more: lives tucked away under sunglasses and jeans, lives before they lost them, before Sansa met Margaery, before, before, before.   
  
Even the diamond earrings, studs that Sansa once kept clenched between her toes, that Sansa had held onto as a last reminder, were sold in the first winter, when the roads had been desolate and the sky ashen and they had been too young to work.   
  
Sometimes, Margaery remembers the shine of the diamonds, the way that they looked in Sansa's ears when it was not too dangerous to wear them, and this is the only memory that she will permit herself, pretends not to notice the nostalgia in Sansa's eyes.  
  
  
  
Now, at night: they walk between the trucks, tapping against the doors of cars, leaning into open windows with their lowered voices. They are eighteen, twenty, fifteen, sometimes, for the right man and the right price; they are a hundred different girls and never Margaery and Sansa, even if they have the same auburn-chestnut hair. They let men caress their thighs, run palms under the curve of their shorts, across the top of their collarbones. They lower themselves onto their knees and look up through their eyelashes and slide open zippers with a smirk on their lips. They don't speak, don't moan, not unless they're paid to. They hold open their palms, after, and count the bills between swift fingers.  
  
  
  
This is a living, this is a life, even if it is not a purpose; purpose was always overrated anyway, Margaery thinks, Sansa thinks. It is enough that this is a place along a road made of tar and paint, enough that there is no set destination and there never will be. This is what they are, even if no one knows it, a double-handled knife with the warmth of a gun-muzzle and the smile of a trickster; a ribbon tied in knots. This is what they always will be, even if no one knows it, bound together with copper and lead, with blood and with words.


End file.
